


Invitation to the Blues

by CanadianGarrison



Series: The Long Way Home [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, But Read it anyways really it's okay trust me, But he'll be in the next one, But he's getting better, Coffee and pie is the best start to any relationship, I'm so sorry Aramis isn't here, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Neo-Noir, Sad Athos, Songfic, Tom Waits
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-11
Updated: 2016-09-11
Packaged: 2018-08-14 12:22:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8013586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CanadianGarrison/pseuds/CanadianGarrison
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One of those nights. Neo-noir Athos, Porthos is the best, and d'Artagnan's had a rough week.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Invitation to the Blues

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first in what I expect to be a series of short stories, each one with an associated Tom Waits song. That's right bitches, songfic! I know, I never listen to the songs when other people post songfic, but please, please listen to the song I link when you read the story? I love Tom Waits and want to share him with you, and I think hearing the song will add to the experience. 
> 
> The song for this story is "Invitation to the Blues" which you can listen to [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CELo-AmUKiU). I would love to hear what you think about the song, Tom is my favourite musician.
> 
> Many thanks to my #smuttyladies and Azile_teacup for audiencing and editing. All mistakes are my own, and sadly I do not own the characters.

It was one of those nights where it wasn't quite raining, but everything was wet; the streetlights reflected on the road like stars, fallen from the sky and washed into the gutters with yesterday's trash.

Athos had been in the back of the van for six and a half hours. He was surveilling a wandering husband, had followed him to three different rendezvous with three different girls over the course of the last week, the only question remaining being what exactly the pinched-faced man was offering to entice their affections. Perhaps drugs. Athos didn't really care. He had taken several photos earlier on, open curtains lending themselves very nicely to images of Bonacieux and the blonde in an apparently-passionate clinch, and now it was twenty minutes until Porthos was scheduled to relieve him, and Athos could go home and smoke the first in the evening’s long line of very large joints.

Porthos was early. He banged on the van twice and twice, the same pattern as always, and Athos leaned over to open the rear doors for him. Porthos's familiar, dimpled smile appeared in the open doorway, drops of rain shining in his hair like diamonds.

“Listening to that Cookie Monster shite again?” More than a decade since they moved to Canada, and before that they'd barely lived in England long enough to unpack their bags, but Porthos persisted in maintaining that British accent. Helped his image, he said. Athos didn't think Porthos needed much help, what with his bright smile and dark eyes, his ability to be a terrifying giant and the cuddliest teddy bear Athos had ever met, often at the same time. Not to mention the way he looked in his perfectly-worn-in black leather jacket.

“Any news from our friend?” Porthos never teased Athos about his musical choices for long.

“Got some photos before they closed the curtains,” Athos answered. “Should be enough for the missus.”

“Hate to see a marriage end like this,” Porthos said. “Still, best she gets out now, before he knocks her up. Or worse.”

Athos just nodded, thoughts drifting to his own past. Porthos would understand without him needing to mention it, wouldn't make him explain. He had more good days than bad, lately, but cases like this always left him a bit fuzzy around the edges.

“Eat anything today?”

“A sandwich, but that was hours ago. I'll stop by Schwab's on the way home, see what Rita has today.”  

“You should find out her real name. Maybe even ask her out,” Porthos said. “Been going there for years, you know she's nice enough. And she really does look like Rita Hayworth. You could do worse.”

“Not sure if she could,” Athos answered before he could stop himself. Porthos gave him a stern look for that, and Athos shook his head. “No, I know. But…” He sighed.

“I know,” Porthos said, reassuring Athos with a strong hand on his shoulder. “I just want you to keep healing, you know? Don't hold yourself back from life.”

Athos looked at Porthos through his too-long hair, gathered his book and phone, put them in his satchel. “I will eat, and I will rest, and if I meet someone interesting, I will remain open to possibilities. All right?”

“All I could ask, my friend.”

* * *

She really did look like Rita Hayworth. When she turned her head, her hair did that thing, like the inmates all loved in The Shawshank Redemption. Her shoes were old-fashioned, they made her ankles look nice, not that he would share that particular thought with Porthos. It would just encourage him.

Tonight Rita was standing by the cash register, ringing up late dinners and slices of pie, glasses dangling on a chain around her neck. Athos took the second stool at the counter, like always, nodded when she placed a cup of coffee in front of him without having to ask. She came back a moment later with milk in a tiny jug, so he wouldn't have to use those horrible pre-packaged creamers.

“You want the special?”

He nodded again. The only other person sitting at the counter was all the way down at the far end; male, dark but probably Caucasian, chin-length brown hair, looked to be a bit over six feet tall, based on how much he was slouching. Jeans, grey t-shirt, plain black bomber jacket, the kind with bright orange lining. There was a half-empty coffee cup on the counter in front of him, and a battered suitcase on the floor by his feet.

“You're from France, right?” Athos shook his head, looking up at Rita; he hadn't realized she was still standing there.

“I haven't been there in a long time,” he answered slowly. “But yes, originally. I didn't know I’d told you.”

“You didn't,” she said, softening it with a little smile. “Your friend mentioned it a while back, the big one.” Of course; leave it to Porthos, he talked to everyone. Rita tipped her head towards the guy with the suitcase. “He's French too, just got here.”

The man looked over at Athos when he realized he was the object of their conversation. He was young, or maybe just looked that way. Athos was tired, wanted to go home to his couch and his weed and his Netflix queue, but he liked Rita, didn't want to disappoint her, and besides, he knew a social cue when it smacked him in the face. It had nothing to do with the way he saw his own loss reflected back to him in this stranger’s eyes.

“Buy you a refill?” Athos offered.

“She told me refills are free,” he answered, but he moved over anyways, leaving his bag as he slid onto the stool next to Athos.

“Slice of pie, then.” Why did everything have to be so complicated? All Athos wanted to do was eat his dinner. Now he had to make conversation with this sad, beautiful man.

“Thanks,” he replied, and something in his face loosened, brightened – suddenly he looked years younger. “I've been on the road a while, but you're the first person to offer more than a cup of coffee. Name’s d'Artagnan.” He held out his hand and Athos shook it, the touch of his fingers lingering in his memory after they’d let go and returned to their coffee.

“I'm Athos. What brings you to Toronto?” He could do this. Easy questions, like a normal person, and why wasn't his food here yet? What even was the special today?

Just then, as if somehow she'd heard him, Rita was back with Athos's food; the special was a club sandwich and fries. D'Artagnan ordered a piece of apple pie, took a refill on his coffee, then turned back to Athos.

“It's on the bus line? I flew in to Montreal but hated it, everyone speaking French with accents like a flock of geese, so I took the Greyhound and here I am. Figured there would have to be some work for me in the biggest city in Canada.”

Athos nodded. His own arrival in Toronto was years ago; he still remembered the disorientation of being in a new place, how overwhelming and exhilarating it felt to see so many people from so many different backgrounds living and working together, and yes, how grating the Quebecois accent was until he got used to it.

“Depends what you want to get into, or what you're willing to do.” D'Artagnan's hands were strong but not callused; he probably wasn't used to hard physical labor. Athos couldn't tell what his arms or shoulders looked like, with that jacket on, not that he was interested.

“Don't much care,” d'Artagnan shrugged. “What about you, what d’you do?” Athos hated that question; people always got the wrong idea, thought his life was fedoras and trench coats and beautiful women who talked fast and lived faster. How could he explain he was more interested in leather jackets and men who knew how to take control?

“I'm a detective, actually,” he answered, taking a bite of his sandwich as Rita set d'Artagnan's pie down in front of him.

“You’re with the police?” D'Artagnan’s entire demeanour changed – he was wary, eyes moving between Athos and the door, checking his exits.

“Not at all,” Athos blurted out, nearly spitting a piece of chicken across the counter. “I smoke way too much pot to be a cop, and although their track record with the queer community has improved, I still wouldn't trust them enough to want to join up.” He was sharing more than he normally would with a stranger, so much more, but Athos couldn't let d'Artagnan leave now, not when they'd just met, and d'Artagnan had definitely relaxed again as Athos spoke. “No, I'm a private investigator.” 

“Oh, cool. Hey, this pie is great, thanks again.” Athos nodded, trying not to stare at d'Artagnan's fingers wrapped around the fork. 

“It's mostly a lot of waiting around, actually. It's not for everyone.”

“All right,” d'Artagnan said amiably.

They chatted a bit more as they ate; things to do in the city, French politics and current events, the labyrinthine process of getting a work visa. As they continued talking, Athos found he genuinely enjoyed d'Artagnan's company. He was easy to be around, intelligent and insightful and funny.

Eventually, however, d'Artagnan ate the last bite of his pie, finished his coffee, stretched a bit and pulled an iPhone out of his inside jacket pocket. “I’d better find someplace to stay tonight.”

“You could stay with me,” Athos offered immediately, not quite believing he was saying it but but hoping against hope that d'Artagnan would accept. He had promised Porthos that he would remain open to possibilities, that's all this was. “I live around the corner, you'd be fine in the guest room.”

“What?” D'Artagnan's shock was clear in his voice. “You don't know me. I could be a serial killer, for all you know, I could murder you and sell everything in your house.”

“One of my housemates is a black belt and the other one’s a detective with a rough past, they could take you down, no problem.” And besides, before d'Artagnan killed him, Athos would enjoy the beating he presumed he would receive.

D'Artagnan was eyeing him speculatively, maybe looking for hidden threats, maybe actually sizing up the opportunity to take advantage. But somehow, Athos didn't think so.

“Okay, Athos. Let's see this house of yours.”

They left Schwab's together. As they turned to head up the street to Athos's house, the rain lifted and the moon shone through the clouds to light their way.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Some but not all of these stories will be smutty. This one isn’t, but the next one is. I’m open to suggestions, if there are things you’d particularly love to see happen, just leave a comment or message me on Tumblr.


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